Chapter Text
He wakes with a harsh gasp, hands flying to his throat. For a second he chokes on air, lungs spasming to life, before letting his hands fall to his side as he gulps in deep breaths, eyes fluttering closed. Five years and the nightmares still haunt him, sending him crashing awake every night without fail. He lets his head fall back against the wall. Beside him Porthos stirs, mumbling under his breath, heavy hand shifting to his thigh and squeezing it gently.
D’Artagnan desperately wants to say his name, wants to reassure him that he’s alright. But he can’t. He settles for carding a hand through Porthos’ curls, letting the larger man snuffle and curl into his side.
He hears a noise from down the hall, the hurried padding of bare feet on the floorboards. The door flings open with a whine and Athos stands with his hair unruly, shirt hanging half off one shoulder, main gauche clutched in his hand and raised, moonlight glinting off the blade.
“D’Artagnan.” He says in a raised whisper, his eyes dart around the room, assessing, strategising, looking for an enemy. “Another?”
He doesn’t deny it, just looks at Athos with his soulful dark eyes, gaze sad. He wants to say: I’m sorry I woke you. I’m sorry for the wine stain on your shirt and Aramis’ constant worry and the fact Porthos refuses to sleep if I’m not in the room with him.
But he can’t. So he doesn’t. Instead he lets Athos slip into the room and kneel by the side of his bed and pull d’Artagnan’s head down to touch his. Athos’ fingers slip loosely around d’Artagnan’s wrists, never too tight or constraining, but covering the scars and resting on his pulse. Making sure d’Artagnan’s alive.
“Aramis didn’t want to crowd you, but he’s waiting just outside. We heard you wake.”
D’Artagnan nods, letting his hair veil him from Athos’ eyes. He’d figured. They all seemed to have trained themselves to wake with him. Sometimes this was even worse than back when they were oblivious and he’d dealt with it alone.
He knows Porthos isn’t asleep by his side, but lying with his head against d’Artagnan’s heartbeat, counting every thump. He knows Aramis is trying to figure out how many hours of sleep he can wrangle out of them tonight while he stands just out of the doorway, brow creased, eyes shadowed.
He needs to say sorry.
But he can’t.
5 years 11 months ago…
D’Artagnan’s horse moves familiarly underneath him and he lets a grin slip onto his face. Turning in his saddle he looks at the three men riding behind him.
“Guard duty has never felt so good.” He crows, letting himself fall back against his saddle bags, back arched.
“You just have an unhealthy obsession with autumn.” Athos notes as he scans the woodland around them. Leaves of all shades of red and brown cloak the forest, muffling the wheels of the carriage behind them and the fall of the horses’ hooves.
“Practically a child.” Aramis grins in agreement. “It’s a bad image for the regiment when civilians see you leaping about in the leaves.”
“‘Cause you set a better one ‘Mis.” Porthos snorts, one hand wrapped in his horse’s reigns, the other resting comfortably against the worn hilt of his sword. “We all know you only get more active ’n the autumn.” He winks crudely at d’Artagnan who snorts loudly.
“Remember when the Captain found him with that lovely young lady…” D’Artagnan presses a gloved finger to his lips.
Porthos clutches his sides with suppressed laughter. “The look on ‘is face. La belle fille with ‘er skirts hitched up an’ our Aramis with ‘is breeches ‘round his ankles—”
“On his desk—” D’Artagnan adds, shit-eating grin spread across his face.
“While this is all very amusing, and I too am having a delightful time reminiscing about Aramis’ various autumn conquests,” Athos interrupts dryly. “We do actually have a job to do. The Queen can’t guard herself.”
“Oh, but you should see the way she handles a musket.” Aramis purrs and lowers his eyelids suggestively at Athos. The other man rolls his eyes.
D’Artagnan lets out a burst of delighted laughter, straightening in the saddle.
“Definitely insane.” Porthos says in a mock whisper, leaning towards Aramis, who nods seriously.
Athos clears his throat meaningfully, and Aramis raises his hands ruefully. “Ok, ok… Tyrant.”
The playful banter does stop after that and a sort of small peace invades the group. Each is alert, on guard, but settled and silent, watching and waiting. The procession through the forest is quiet, only six Musketeers on horses and the small plain carriage.
If d’Artagnan listens carefully he can hear the faint warble of laughter as the Queen converses with Constance. He remembers Aramis helping her into the carriage, a simple blue dress clinging to her figure. He remembers Aramis’ look of absolute devotion, shining in his eyes as her small, slender hand fit in his. Then radiant Constance, holding her skirts in one hand as she swung herself up into the carriage. Her red lips had quirked just before she’d settled, reacting to something the Queen had murmured and d’Artagnan had looked away, heart still just a little too fragile for the display.
He glances up to the road ahead of them and realises something, a chill travelling down his spine.
“Athos.”
He could tell the other man had heard it too, because he spurs his horse forward to catch up with d’Artagnan.
Hoofbeats, fast and thunderous and heading towards them.
Aramis has his rifle drawn and levelled at the noise, musket loaded and laying on his saddle and d’Artagnan tries to guess how many attackers they are facing, head tilted as he listens.
“A little less than thirty.” He says to Athos who nods slowly, gesturing the carriage to stop. The horses whinny and toss their manes as they still.
“They might not be after us.” Aramis says hopefully, arm steady, already sighting down the barrel.
“When do we have that sort of luck.” Porthos replies, cracking his knuckles dramatically, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Keep that up and you’ll just scare them off.” D’Artagnan glances back at him, eyes glimmering with a mix of elation and amusement, hands busy with his flintlock.
“Please.” Athos says, calming cocking his pistol and twisting his wrists. “Porthos couldn’t scare a fly.”
“I’ve seen flies drop dead at one look at that ugly mug.” Aramis grins as they settle in an arrow formation in front of the carriage, horses shifty underneath them, pacing with the tension in the air.
“Enough.” Athos says quietly, ending the talk with that simple command. As if this was their cue, the riders finally come into sight, dressed raggedly and bent low over their steads.
The first shot rings out and d’Artagnan just smiles wildly. “Hostiles.”
Aramis looses his shot in the next moment and the lead rider tumbles from his saddle, hitting the ground with a spray of crimson. His musket picks off the next man, his legs crumpling at an unnatural angle beneath him.
Athos doesn’t wait to watch his target slump before pulling his rapier from its sheath, his blade singing death.
The riders are upon them before they realise it and each is fighting a battle for their life. Porthos is tugged from his seat, spitting mud from his mouth before he slams the offender’s face into his knee, feeling the wet crunch of his nose breaking.
D’Artagnan slashes a man across the throat, blood spraying his face, then hurriedly dismounts, sliding to the ground. He quickly dispatches a man with shockingly blonde hair, a surprised look permanently printed on his features with the slide of cold steel into his gut.
He turns swiftly on the spot, gauging the threat. One of the other musketeers stumbles by him, a dagger embedded in his eye, blood and clear fluids leaking down his cheek like tears. D’Artagnan sends a quick prayer of thanks that it was not one of his Inséparables.
The odds are roughly five men to twenty-three by this point, impossible odds.
A screech rips through the air and his eyes flick towards the carriage.
“No!” Constance’s voice is distinctive and he sees a heavy-set man struggling with an armful of thrashing cornflower blue.
He’s beside them before he realises, main gauche in hand. He brings the hilt down sharply against the side of the man’s head, his grip on the Queen loosening enough for her to wrench free, stumbling up against the carriage. He takes an instant to make sure she’s clear before grabbing the musket from his side. The man folds backwards and a mist of blood fills the air.
“Your Majesty.” D’Artagnan says quietly, differentially, turning to the woman. He looks her up and down for injuries, but she looks unharmed, if shaken, hands toying with the blonde hair that has slipped from her tight bun. A glance up to the front of the carriage shows the coachman’s body slumped forward, jaw slack.
“D’Artagnan.” She gasps, eyes fixed over his shoulder.
He swings backwards, following her gaze, and the attacker behind him catches the butt of his flintlock across the face with a crack. A man with a glinting sword slices his shoulder open as he pulls the Queen roughly behind him. He winces and blocks the next stroke with his palm, main gauche and his own rapier out of reach. The blade bites deep into his flesh as he grabs it and twists it from the man’s grip. He can feel blood, warm and sticky, dribbling down his arm. The man goes down quickly, sharpened steel vs soft flesh.
A hand drifts behind him as he makes sure the Queen is safe, protected by his body. He can feel the light tremors running through her, but he knows she is strong and not about to break down, endangering him and herself.
He fends off multiple attacks, the bodies strewn around him drenched with blood and he can no longer tell how much of it is theirs and how much is his. He licks his lips roughly, tasting metal and gunpowder. His vision blurs a little and he notice his side is wet.
“D’Artagnan!” A voice cries out and he belatedly realises it’s Aramis as he raises his sword to parry another’s with a clash of steel. His gaze flick sideways and he realises the Queen has been pulled from behind him by a leather bound man with dark malevolent eyes and a pistol at her pale temple.
The world seems to freeze around him, his blood running cold in his veins.
“Lay down the weapon, Monsieur.” The man says quietly. “Or your Lady tastes a bullet.”
The Queen swallows harshly and d’Artagnan can see the fear in her eyes, her lips quivering. He carefully places his rapier and main gauche on the muddy ground, in amongst the footprints of dead men. In his mind he is ruthlessly calculating the odds of his speed and the reflexes of the man’s finger resting against the trigger.
“What do you want from her?” He asks, raising his hands to the man, trying to tamp down his anger at his own helplessness.
“Oh, I want her.” The man bares his teeth. “But I also want you.”
The Queen’s mouth opens and she screams his name as dull pain spreads from the back of his head. Black spots drift across his vision as he tries to stay awake and alert. He watches, helpless, as the man tears a strip of fabric from his shirt, gagging the Queen. He tries to turn his head, catching a glimpse of Porthos, grappling with an assailant, a wound on his face dribbling blood. He hears a roar of anger and pain, then everything goes black.